


Kiss Her Once For Me

by perfectlystill



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Christmas Party, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Meet the Family, Not Republican Friendly, Slow Dancing, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21888853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill
Summary: “Why would you want to pretend to be my boyfriend?”His smile grows. “I really like those cheesy holiday movies. Always wanted to be part of one. So really, you’d be doing me a favor, too.”
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Comments: 73
Kudos: 379





	Kiss Her Once For Me

**Author's Note:**

> The last part of my truncated version of [positivelyglowing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/positivelyglowing/pseuds/positivelyglowing)'s [12 Day of Promptmas](https://spiderman-homecomeme.tumblr.com/post/189131059410/twelve-days-of-promptmas), using concept 20. Fake dating for Christmas and dialogue 46. "You sure you have enough hot chocolate with your marshmallows?" "Shut up!"
> 
> Title from "Holly, Jolly Christmas."

“I’ll mark you down as one.”

MJ adjusts her cell, wedged between her ear and shoulder. “Plus one.”

“Ha ha.”

“I’m not kidding, Betty.”

There’s an audible exhale. “Please don’t tell me you swiped through Tinder looking for some random person to bring to the family Christmas party, Michelle. That’s so sad.”

“I didn’t.”

She didn’t. 

“Are you bringing a friend? A co-worker?” Betty asks. 

“I’m bringing my boyfriend.”

“You don’t have a boyfriend.”

She doesn’t. 

“Yes, I do.” Michelle tucks her feet underneath her thighs, cuddling into the couch’s arm. “I just don’t need it to be a big deal. Everyone loved Brad so much, and when it turned to shit, the entire family acted like it was my fault.”

“I mean, he asked you to move in with him after dating for over two years, and you said ‘No.’”

MJ sighs. “I like my apartment.”

“Sure,” Betty tuts. “But Brad wanted to buy a house. Start a life. It’s not like he did anything wrong, MJ.”

“I don’t want to rehash this.” She rubs her temple, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. 

Brad was nice. He let her throw her feet onto his lap while they both read on the couch she currently sits on. When he spent the night and left for work first, he put coffee in a thermos for her. He listened to MJ’s rambling about all her favorite true crime podcasts. 

But he always raised his eyebrows and nodded his head after making a joke, waiting for Michelle to laugh. He liked music playing in the background while they read, and all it did was annoy and distract her. He never quite got the coffee to milk ratio right, and the comments about being scared Michelle was going to murder him in the middle of the night stopped being funny after the first ten times. 

“Just tell Grams that I’m bringing someone, okay?”

“Sure…”

“The skepticism in your voice is heartwarming,” Michelle says. 

“Maybe if this wasn’t the first time you’ve mentioned a boyfriend, then I wouldn’t feel like this is a last-ditch effort to convince everyone you didn’t mess up the best relationship that ever happened to you.”

Michelle rolls her eyes. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Love you,” Betty sing-songs.

“Love you, too.”

Well, shit.

The intelligent thing to do would have been finding someone to take to the family Christmas party. 

Michelle could have asked Harry from work. He’s always leaning on her desk and asking about her weekend. Except he eyes her with a bit too much enthusiasm, and she can imagine him taking the fake dating thing to too touchy heights. Pass, no pun intended. 

She could have swiped through Tinder like Betty claimed she did. Maybe found a real date. MJ even downloaded the app and started a profile, but she deleted it before she even began the swiping process, a gross, slimy feeling crawling up her spine. She knows people use these apps to find dates, hookups, and spouses, but all Michelle wants is someone to parade around her grandma’s ranch-style house so nobody will sympathetically frown in her direction.

In the end, she wraps her scarf twice around her neck, heading to the party alone. She’ll just tell Grams that her boyfriend’s stuck at the office or something. She has a 34 minute Uber ride to figure it out. 

Michelle fiddles with the clutch in her lap, grimacing as she spots a hoard of carolers at the corner of her grandmother’s street.

When she was little, Betty forced Liz and Michelle to try their hand at caroling around the neighborhood for treats: slices of banana bread from the Carters, gross popcorn balls from the Bartons, and peppermint bark from the Langs. 

All three of them consumed too much sugar too quickly, and Michelle’s toes had gone numb in her sneakers. 

“On the right,” she instructs the driver, his speed slowing as he attempts to read house numbers in the dark. “Passed the streetlight. Jeep in the driveway.”

He pulls in, telling her to have a nice night. 

She forces a smile. “Thanks, you too.”

Stepping onto the porch, MJ takes a deep breath, loosening the scarf around her neck. She’ll simply say her boyfriend is finishing up a brief that’s due by midnight. It’ll be fine. Betty will be suspicious, but Liz will accept the lie easily enough, even if just for the party. Grams will frown, but it’ll be totally, completely fine. 

Probably.

“Michelle!” Her mom grins, gracefully swerving through aunts and uncles. The glass of red wine in her hand sloshes about, but nothing spills. With her opposite arm, she pulls MJ into a hug. “It’s so good to see you, sweetie.”

“You, too, Mom.”

“You are coming to breakfast on Christmas, right?” 

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

She would.

Michelle tried to skip two years ago, but it was more of a hassle than it was worth. She’ll deal with Gayle’s husband asking invasive questions, her father’s lumpy pancakes, and the incessant Christmas radio station blasting through the house, commercials and all. 

She doesn’t want her mother to spend the next three months asking why she _hates_ them.

Two years ago, her mom did it just to annoy her. 

It worked. 

“Great! We’re planning on 11 o’clock mass.”

“I don’t think I’ll--”

“Please, your father is very worried about you.” Her mom frowns. “It’ll ease his mind if you just--”

“MJ,” Betty says, a little breathless. 

“Hey.” Michelle smiles, genuinely relieved. Betty’s a good distraction. “How are you?”

“Good, good.” Betty waves a hand around. 

“Good.”

She huffs. “Please. I don’t need this right now. Where’s your boyfriend?”

“Why?”

“I want to judge him. Ask if he knows about the time you got so drunk at Olive Garden you fell off the curb and scraped up your knee.”

“Betty,” MJ warns. 

“Brad helped you to the car,” her mom cuts in, eyes twinkling in a sad, nostalgic way. “I hope he’s doing well.”

“You can ask him yourself.”

Michelle sputters. “What?”

Betty’s grin is too wide, artificial and apologetic. “Grams invited him.”

“ _What_!?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Betty says. “She likes Brad. She’s doing that Grams thing.”

Michelle narrows her eyes. “What thing?”

“The one where she tries to get you to see the error of your ways and marry the boy she handpicked for you.”

“She didn’t handpick him,” MJ says.

She met Brad working on a political campaign fresh out of undergrad. They were both idealistic people who thought they weren’t, discussing the myth of electability and their (general, not the two of them, specifically) ability to move the proverbial needle. He was handsome, charismatic and articulate. 

He liked her. 

He really, really seemed to like her.

Nothing to do with him being the son of one of her grandmother’s friend’s children or anything ridiculous like that. 

“She approved of him,” her mom adds. “She still doesn’t like Timothy.”

That’s true.

MJ would feel worse for her sister if she didn't think Timothy was basically insufferable. 

“Well,” Betty says, elbowing her. “Where’s the boyfriend?”

MJ swallows. “Working late.”

“Sweetheart,” her mom says, all soft and pitying. 

“But he’s coming, right?” Betty asks. 

“He’s going to try?”

Betty shakes her head and sighs, eyeing Michelle like she knows there is no boyfriend and that with Brad coming, it’s going to seem like her fake boyfriend doesn’t value his commitments -- his commitment to her, specifically. 

Great.

“I’m gonna give him a call,” she says, fishing her phone out of her pocket and pointing toward the foyer. 

She hears her mother ask Betty about Ned as she walks away, exhaling an anxious breath. 

This is just excellent. Fantastic. Absolutely amazing.

Maybe she should grab her coat from the front closet and leave, dash down the street and call a car to take her home. She’d need an excuse. Maybe she feels nauseous. She rubs at her temple; maybe a migraine. 

Michelle is two long strides away from the door when the bell rings. 

Huh.

Grams, trusting and white and suburban as ever, left the door unlocked and posted a Wordart sign that reads: PLEASE, COME IN!

Michelle twists the knob and pulls the door open, worried she’ll be faced with some overly polite friend of the family she has been careful to never interact with. Or worse: Brad Davis. 

Instead, she’s met with a chorus of “Holly Jolly Christmas.”

She blinks, a few partygoers congregating at her back and around the front door to watch the carolers and their overly chipper display of almost in-tune singing. She smiles a tight thing when the song comes to an end. 

There’s a smattering of applause behind her, and it only increases as other guests hear it, clapping along even if they have no idea why.

“We’re having a party, so if you want to come inside and steal some candy canes or whatever…” Michelle offers, trailing off. 

Truth be told, besides her winter break antics with Betty and Liz in elementary school, she’s never encountered any actual door-to-door carolers in her life, and she doesn’t quite know what the etiquette is meant to be. 

“Oh, no,” a woman says, blonde hair spilling over her coat. “We don’t want anything.”

“Just a fun, family tradition!” another woman offers. She has a warm, genuine smile and a fluffy white snowball made of string attached to her hat. “If you want to tell Eleanor that May has extra peanut brittle, that would be great.”

“You really can come in and tell her yourself,” MJ says. 

“I’m cold,” comes a whine from a young girl holding the hand of someone who looks to be about Michelle’s age. He’s got a nice jaw, nice eyes. Kind of really cute.

“We should get going,” somebody says. “Leave the Grinch to Eleanor’s holiday party.”

“Tony!” The blonde woman smacks his arm.

“Could I just use your bathroom?” the kind of really cute man asks. 

MJ smacks the door with an open palm. “That’s what the sign says.”

“It actually just says to come in.”

She laughs despite herself, a huff of sound. “Yeah, you can use the bathroom.”

“I’m cold,” the little girl whines again. 

“You can all come in,” Michelle clarifies. 

“My feet hurt,” she adds, looking up with wide, sad eyes. 

“No, Morgan,” Tony says (he’s oddly familiar, but Michelle can’t put her finger on it), taking the girl’s hand from Really Cute before looking at Michelle. “She’ll just get too warm, and then she’ll be even colder when we leave.”

“It’s almost her bedtime, anyway,” the blonde adds. “We should finish May’s route.”

“And we know when we’re not welcomed.” Tony looks at Michelle, narrowing his eyes. 

Michelle rolls hers, pulling the door open for whoever in their party wants to join the one happening inside. “Please,” she emphasizes, waving to the entryway. 

“I’ll just meet up with you guys after,” Really Cute says, shoving his hands into his coat pockets.

“You sure, Pete? This one could be a murderer.” Tony nods toward her.

“I’ll probably be fine.” Pete laughs, a warm sound, rocking on his heels and looking through the door. 

Everybody who stopped to listen to the carolers has dispersed by now, and Michelle’s letting all the hot air out to spite her grandmother’s heating bill. She deserves it for inviting Brad.

Peter seems satisfied. “Lots of witnesses.”

“We’re going that way,” May says, pointing. 

“I’ll catch up.” Pete hugs her sideways before leaning down to kiss Morgan on the cheek. “Sing extra loud for me, okay?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll let you pick all the tracks in Mario Kart the next time we play.”

She hums. “Awesome. I also get to pick your character.”

Pete sighs, loud and fake. “Fine. But if you steal Princess Daisy from me, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Yes, you will.”

“Probably.” He nudges Morgan’s arm, smile slipping onto his face as he stands. It’s a nice smile. Michelle would like it if she thought about it. But she isn’t going to. 

“I’ll see you guys soon,” Pete says. 

“Don’t join her cult, either!” Tony calls. 

“Bye, Peter,” the blonde says, grabbing Tony by the arms and physically turning him away. 

“It was nice to meet you!” May calls over her shoulder, waving her mittened hand, smile cheery and bright. 

Michelle waves back even though May doesn’t even know her name. She gestures into Grams’s house. “Bathroom’s the first door on the left. Or you can go passed the living room and the bedroom. Second door on the right. That’s the safer bet.”

“Thanks...” Peter begins, pulling off his gloves.

“MJ,” she supplies.

“Thanks, MJ.”

She shrugs. “It’s not my house.”

“Thanks anyway.” He smiles that same nice smile that she isn’t thinking about. 

He zips off his boots and leaves them near the sloppy pile by the front door before sprinting down the hall with various excuse me’s.

Michelle’s distracted, turned around, has momentarily forgotten the terrible situation she’s put herself in. 

Until Liz finds her with a pinched mouth and searching eyes. “I ran into Brad.”

MJ groans. “He’s here?”

“He’s charming your grandmother in the kitchen.”

“I can’t believe he showed up.”

Liz frowns. “Really?”

“He’s always loved a party,” Michelle concedes. But loving a party and showing up at one thrown by an ex’s grandmother are two very different things. “I just didn’t know he had the audacity to come to this one.”

“Maybe he figured your Grams ran it by you first? Oh.” Liz’s eyes go wide. “What if he thinks you want to get back together?”

“I don’t.”

She doesn’t.

“Yeah. That would be pretty arrogant.”

“He does think pretty highly of himself,” MJ offers. 

The conversations when she and Brad first met were a joint meeting of the arrogant, really. The fun back and forth about how they would fix complicated problems, inspire the checked out, and change the world. She learned from those discussions, and she knows Brad did, too. But while Michelle has tempered (for better or worse), still wanting to make a difference, still striving to do better, Brad hasn’t. His gut instinct is that he’s always right. He can come around, sure, but he never loses that aura of Rightness. Never quite wavers from his initial premise.

It’s exhausting. 

“You liked that about him,” Liz points out. “Confidence and ambition and everything.”

“Until you disagree about where to get Chinese,” Michelle says.

Liz laughs, shaking her head. “Yeah. He probably doesn’t want to get back together, anyway.”

Michelle doesn’t either, but still, ouch.

“And you have a boyfriend,” Liz adds. 

Shit. 

“Where is he, by the way? I’m so excited to meet him.”

 _Shit_.

“He’s, um, you know, just,” Michelle starts, looking around the room. People are chatting, one of Gayle’s kids licks eggnog off his upper lip, and Betty laughs with her mom, backed into a corner. Just like MJ. 

Ugh.

“He’s just running a little--”

“Hey, MJ,” Peter interrupts, grabbing her hand with one of his and holding the other out to Liz. “I’m Peter.”

Liz blinks.

MJ tries not to force an unnatural grin. 

“Oh.” Liz smiles, glancing at MJ before shaking Peter’s hand. “Liz. MJ and I have been best friends since we were little.” She chuckles, flustered, shaking Peter’s hand far longer than normal or necessary. She and Betty probably had a few conversations mocking MJ’s presumably fake boyfriend and her desperate attempt to counter her family’s expectations. “You probably know that. Or maybe not. I mean, I wish I could say she can’t stop talking about you, but honestly, she’s kept you pretty mysterious.”

“That’s my fault.” Peter squeezes MJ’s hand once before dropping it. Probably because she never even bothered to hold his back. “I wanted to make my own first impression.”

“That makes sense,” Liz says. “MJ tends to undersell, though. So you wouldn’t have had to worry.”

“That’s why we work. I oversell.”

Liz’s smile becomes more genuine, less shell-shocked at this person standing in front of her claiming to be MJ’s boyfriend. Michelle would be offended, but she’s still processing the ridiculousness that’s currently happening. Waiting for the punchline. 

“Hard to oversell her, though,” Peter continues. He glances at MJ, fond little smile on his mouth. She forces one back. “Kind of impossible.”

“She is pretty great.” Liz looks at MJ. Her eyes don’t go all wide and she doesn’t mouth, “Oh my god!” but she conveys the same sentiment. “It was really nice to meet you, Peter. I’m sure I’ll be seeing more of you.”

“I hope so,” he says, sounding oddly enthusiastic and genuine. 

Does Peter have a crush on Liz? Probably. Everybody has a crush on Liz. Brad had a crush on Liz the entire time he was with MJ. It just makes sense. Liz is stunning, sweet and smart. MJ wouldn’t even put it passed herself to have a secret crush on Liz.

“He’s cute, Em,” Liz whispers as she passes, fingers wrapping briefly around her wrist.

“I know,” she hisses back.

When Liz is out of earshot, Michelle turns to face Peter. “What the fuck?”

“Sorry?” He scratches at the back of his neck. He’s still wearing his winter coat, unzipped. “I’m so sorry. You seemed to be struggling, so I just... I’m sorry. Your real boyfriend is going to be so upset, and when he shows up you’re going to have to explain and I-- I’ll tell him I’m an idiot. I’m so--”

“I don’t have a real boyfriend,” she interrupts.

“Oh.”

“Thank you, but you didn’t have to do that. I should just tell everybody I lied to seem less… I don’t know, alone.”

Not lonely. 

Peter tries to stick his hands in his coat pockets, but one is bulging with his gloves, and the other his hat. “Or I could stay?”

“What?”

“Liz already thinks I’m your boyfriend.” He shrugs, sporting a boyish, charming smile that makes Michelle feel unsteady ( _not_ weak in the knees).

“You don’t have to do that. You have to go meet your family.” Michelle gestures vaguely. “I’m sure Tony would love to hear about this.”

Peter chuckles. “They’re fine. I ruin their harmonies, anyway. I’ll just text May that I’m staying. She’ll be thrilled I can tell Eleanor about the peanut brittle.”

MJ narrows her eyes. “Why?”

“She has way too much, and apparently Eleanor is always bringing over extra cucumbers from the vegetable garden in the summer.”

“Why would you want to pretend to be my boyfriend?” she clarifies.

His smile grows. “I really like those cheesy holiday movies. Always wanted to be part of one. So really, you’d be doing me a favor, too.”

Michelle stares at him, and he stares back, and her stomach does a nervous, fluttering thing, because the longer he stays, the more likely it is that this lie will be exposed. 

Not because he has really nice eyes. 

“Okay. Sure. Thanks, Peter.”

“No, thank you.” He holds out his hand. “Honey?”

She scrunches her nose, but she slips her palm into his. “Gross.”

Peter laughs. “Please tell me you’re secretly Santa’s daughter.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

He laughs again, like she’s a lot funnier than she is, and she fights an eye roll. “It’s okay. That was only like, the fifth thing on my checklist.”

“The first four?”

“I’ll tell you later,” he says.

“Bullshit.”

“What?” he asks. 

“You don’t have a list.”

“If it makes you feel better about not being MJ Claus, then maybe I don’t.”

“What if it makes me feel worse? What if that was the _only_ thing on your list?” She squints at him, mouth twisted as she leads him back toward the front closest so he can hang up his coat.

They’re still holding hands. 

Peter’s palm is rough, more calloused than Brad’s ever was, warm. Michelle’s aware of it in a weird way, like when she liked a boy in middle school and his knee accidentally touched hers while smooshed on the bleachers during an assembly. 

“It’s not. Promise.” He leans close. “I wanted someone who could piss Tony off, too.”

Michelle snorts, clamping down around a smile. “Why’s that?”

“It makes me laugh.”

Michelle nudges at him with her elbow, shaking her head and dropping his hand to pull open the closet door.

They hang his coat, shoving it into the packed space next to MJ’s. 

Peter texts his aunt, flashing the phone at Michelle so she can see the thumbs up and multiple heart emojis he gets in response before he retakes her hand. 

“So, what’s the plan?” Peter asks, following her as she shoulders through the crowd. 

“What plan?”

“I don’t know.” He squeezes her hand. “That’s why I’m asking.”

MJ glances over her shoulder. He really is cute. She could have done a lot worse, as far as fake boyfriends go. He could be taller, but in his cozy blue swear, she can see he’s trying to hide some muscle definition. His eyes flick over her, and _oh_. He’s checking her out, too. 

She doesn’t know why she’s surprised. 

She’s been told many times, by many people, how pretty she is, often with a wink of advice about how she could take better advantage of it. About how she doesn’t have to be so smart and so sarcastic. 

“We’ll do the rounds and leave as soon as possible. Quick and painless.”

“Got it.” He nods dutifully, catching her eye, a flush dusting across his face that makes her feel good. 

_Really_ good.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” MJ’s mom says, beaming at her daughter instead of Peter.

Betty keeps doing double-takes. Eyes wide, looking between Michelle, Peter and their clasped hands. Over and over again.

“Who are you?” Betty asks.

“Peter?” he repeats from MJ’s introduction.

“Who?”

“My boyfriend, Betty.”

“How?”

“I asked him out,” Michelle says, flat.

“What?”

“Betty,” MJ’s mom says, squeezing her bicep. “You’re being rude. Women can ask men out nowadays.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she corrects, shaking her head. “I’m just confused.”

“I am, too,” Peter agrees. “She’s way out of my league.”

MJ rolls her eyes. He’s definitely spent too much time watching those cheesy holiday movies if he thinks that’s a good line. “Shut up, loser. That’s not going to work on any of us.”

“What was I supposed to think? You didn’t tell anybody about me!”

“I thought you wanted to make your own first impression?” she asks, eyes cutting to him. 

He grins. “Did I say that?

She glares. 

Peter leans over, kissing her cheek, a soft press. He doesn’t linger. Which is good. Her mother is _right there_. Michelle senses that her exhale is loud, shocked at the PDA. Her face feels hot, even hotter where his lips touched her skin. 

Michelle’s not really a PDA person. Which maybe she should have told him. The plan he asked about. She _is_ holding his hand, so he might think she’s one of those annoying people who always has to be touching her partner for fear they’ll float away.

Wait, what if he’s one of those people? That would be awful. 

Or not. 

Because it doesn’t matter either way, realistically. 

“So, Peter, what do you do?” her mother asks, interrupting MJ’s internal freakout.

Her mom’s always there for her, even when she doesn’t know it. 

“I work for Stark Industries.”

Betty frowns. 

Oh, shit. She should have told him how she feels about large, multi-billion dollar corporations. 

It hits her that Tony is Tony Stark. He looks a lot older in person than in the pictures they still use to accompany press releases. Typical. 

“My daughter has always liked a challenge,” her mom tuts, all amusement. 

Peter’s brow furrows. “Um, I run the STEM programs for the scholarship kids? Lead them three days a week, make sure Mr. Stark and Shuri don’t kill each other when they meet up. The Wakandian International Outreach program is doing amazing things.”

Betty nods. “Ah. That makes more sense.”

“What?” Peter asks, looking between all three women.

“Did MJ not give you the speech about how billionaires shouldn’t exist?” Her mom smirks. “It’s a good one, and she’s right. But consider yourself lucky because it’s long. Flows right into a scathing critique of capitalism.”

“Mom,” Michelle grits. 

“Relationship too new for that?”

Peter laughs, a little tense, grip on MJ’s hand a little tighter. “No, she’s right. But Mr. Stark gives me resources to really do some good. His money allows us to take in anybody who’s interested and really explore technologies instead of being limited.”

“He couldn’t just donate to a nonprofit?” MJ asks. 

“You want him to write it all off for tax purposes?”

She narrows her eyes. She’s not an expert in tax law, so she’ll have to do more research so she can win this argument.

Wait.

This argument is only going to last tonight. She’s never going to see Peter again. 

Right.

“No,” Michelle relents. 

“I get it,” Betty says. 

MJ eyes her.

“I get it,” she repeats, pointing between them. “This is good. I get it.”

“Thanks?” Peter asks.

Her mom chuckles, sipping her wine. “So, how’d you two meet?”

This, MJ knows. Spent thirty minutes in bed the other night trying to get comfortable and thinking up a mundane, realistic story. Something cute but not too cute. She met Brad waiting for stale coffee in a campaign office, but to hear him tell it, it was love at first sight, birds chirping, sunlight forming a halo around the two of them. Romantic. 

It wasn’t, and she spilled some coffee on her blouse. 

“Grocery store,” she and Peter say at the same time.

He turns to her with a pleased, goofy grin. It lights up his whole face and makes the corners of MJ’s mouth tilt up.

“We were looking at produce, and Peter asked me how to pick a ripe avocado,” she explains. 

“Firm, with a little give, but not mushy,” he says, nodding at her, smile shrinking but not dimming. His eyes twinkle, or some other Disney prince shit. MJ doesn’t know if it’s real, or the lights from Grams’s Christmas tree in the corner, or MJ just finding him really, really cute.

She nods back.

“I don’t even like avocado,” Peter adds, glancing at her mom and Betty before looking at Michelle again, soft and warm. “She’s just the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

It’s a line. A corny, cheesy one. But he looks serious, smile in his eyes but not curving at his mouth, something almost nervous flitting across his face as he swallows. 

Peter breaks eye contact. 

“I’m more than just a pretty face,” MJ says.

“We all know you’re very smart, honey.” Her mom’s eye rolls are more good-natured than MJ’s, but she still comes by them honestly. “That’s part of your ego that you don’t need stroked.”

“You’re just trying to compliment yourself.”

“Are you saying I’m not pretty, Michelle?”

“Oh my god,” she mutters. 

“I’m kidding.” Her mother shakes her head as though Michelle doesn’t know how to take a joke. 

She smiles at Peter. “Did you buy an avocado?”

He scratches at the back of his neck. “I bought three.”

Her mom guffaws. 

“He’s not funny,” MJ says.

“That boy bought three avocados for your number!”

“Not the worst thing I’ve ever done for somebody’s number,” Peter chimes in, chagrined. 

Her mom leans forward, voice a faux whisper. “Well, we won’t talk about other girls. MJ has trouble with jealousy.”

“Mom,” she hisses. 

Peter squeezes her hand. His palm is so warm, and it’s too warm in here with guests shuffling around them to get a look at the Christmas tree. He chuckles, but it sounds artificial. “I’d have to disagree.”

“We gave her sister one of those art kits for Christmas when she was five. You know the ones: cheap crayons, markers, colored pencils, all that. She didn’t throw a tantrum, just stomped away and sulked in her room all day.”

“I was five.”

“You kept making snippy little comments about Brad’s ex,” her mom says. 

This is true.

Brad’s ex was blonde and curvy with a frustratingly high-pitched, sing-song voice that managed to make everything out of her mouth condescending. She was a close childhood friend, their families taking vacations and celebrating holidays as one. 

“She was a Republican,” MJ says. 

Her mom wrinkles her nose. “Touche.”

“That makes sense, then,” Peter says. “Actually, I’m a little thirsty…”

“I didn’t mean to monopolize you.” Michelle’s mother holds out her glass. “There’s an exceptionally good Malbec in the kitchen. I put it back in the fridge to hide it.”

“Thanks.” Peter smiles a small thing, catching MJ’s eye. 

Peter follows her through the crowd and doesn’t say anything when MJ drops his hand to hug Aunt Anna, Cousin Johnny, or any of her extended family. She offers a weak introduction when Aunt Anna eyes Peter behind her and when Johnny asks if she’s seen Brad. 

Half of the kitchen is still crowded with partygoers, but by the stove, sink and cabinets, it’s just a rotation of guests pouring more eggnog or grazing on cheese cubes or gingerbread cookies before moving on. 

“Sorry,” Peter says.

“For what?” MJ reads the calligraphy in front of the vats before grabbing a mug from the cabinet. Guests are meant to use the stack of festive styrofoam cups, but Michelle bypasses them. 

“Kissing your cheek. It was weird, and I should’ve asked.”

MJ grabs a second mug, holding it out for him. “It was fine. Just unexpected. I’m not really a public displays person.”

“Yeah, I figured. You froze up, and I just. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” MJ offers a small smile, filling her mug with steaming cocoa. “For that. Stark Industries, though?”

“I make STEM fun for kids!”

“Sure. But a lot of those kids’ parents don’t make living wages because your boss is hoarding billions to fly fancy jets around.”

“He doesn’t fly fancy jets around,” Peter says.

MJ tuts. She does not believe that. 

“Tony offered me an internship in high school, helped pay for my degree at MIT. Without him, I don’t know, I’d--”

“Have gone to ESU?”

Peter laughs. “It’s complicated. I get it. I don’t have answers for you, MJ. But he’s not a bad guy.” 

“Some things can’t be forgiven,” she says, bending down to grab a new bag of mini marshmallows from the cupboard. She doesn’t trust the bowl that’s out, doesn’t trust that everyone used the scoop and not their hands. 

“I get that.” It’s softer, sadder. 

MJ wants to pry. 

Peter clears his throat. “Are you sure you have enough hot chocolate with your marshmallows?”

“Shut up.” 

He laughs again. It’s a nice sound, and she’s starting to get used to it. 

His mug is still empty.

“You going to have anything?” Michelle asks.

“Debating between the two eggnogs.”

“You’ll need the spiked stuff,” MJ says. “My dad does that annoying thing where he quizzes you on my behalf, as though I’m not a good judge of character in my own right.”

Peter hums, taking her advice and some alcoholic eggnog. “So, what do you do?”

“Grant writing for the ACLU.”

“Oh, wow, that’s so awesome!”

Michelle shrugs. “It’s okay. I’m good at it.”

“You should write me a letter.”

“Why?”

“I’m sure there’s a grant SI could give you. You know, put some more of our billionaire money to good use.”

“Billionaire, illegal weapons money. Responsible for killing thousands of people, if not more.”

Instead of getting defensive, Peter nods. His mouth pulls up at the corners, soft, encouraging. “Exactly. It’s better spent helping win civil rights cases than just about anything else.”

“Maybe we don’t want your blood money.”

Peter huffs, but it’s a fond sound. “If you change your mind just let me know. I could probably create a grant just for you.”

“Do you come up with all of these humble brags on the spot?” Michelle asks. “Or do you keep a fully loaded arsenal of them like your boss?”

He blanches, tips of his ears flushing pink. “I’m sorry. I just think what you do is really important and--”

“I’m messing with you,” MJ says. She slurps a marshmallow into her mouth. 

“Oh, okay. And I work for Ms. Potts, actually.”

“She seems pretty great,” MJ hums. “Despite being married to Stark.”

“Of course.” Peter grins. “So you love your job? Too caught up with work for a boyfriend?”

MJ rolls her eyes. “No. My family thinks that. I just haven’t felt the need to date. I don’t care to do the whole dating app thing right now, and I haven’t met anyone the old fashioned way, so.” She shrugs. “My life is good. I think I’d prefer to do more policy stuff, though.”

“Then you should,” Peter says. He sips his eggnog, grimacing when he realizes just how much bourbon Grams puts in. It’s ridiculously endearing, the way he leans back, lips puckered and nose scrunching. 

Goddammit. He’s so cute.

Ugh.

Michelle grins. “Grams is a big drinker.”

“I can see that.” Peter blinks, eyes a little misty. “Wow.”

“I know.” Michelle clamps down around a smirk. “You can cut it with the kiddie nog if you want.”

“Thanks for your permission.”

“You’re welcome.”

She encourages him to reduce waste by dumping it back into the bowl before adding the nonalcoholic stuff to his mug. “The alcohol keeps it sanitary.”

Another (wonderful) laugh. “I actually believe that.”

Peter’s next sip is small, hesitant. When it doesn’t make him cough, he says, “Is there a reason you haven’t switched to a policy position?”

“Nothing available in the city.”

“And you don’t want to leave?”

Michelle has lived in New York her entire life. She grew up in Queens, her family jumping apartments every few years, spending summers with her mother’s relatives in Yorktown. She earned her poli sci degree from Columbia. 

Her family and friends are here. The life she built for herself is here. 

It’s not that she’s never ventured out. A brief stint with Brad as field organizers for a presidential campaign in Iowa. She vacationed in Austin for two weeks during one college summer with Betty and Liz, miscalculating what the heat would feel like and spending too much time inside their air-conditioned Airbnb. Her family took a trip to Disney World for Grams’s 70th birthday, and she rode It’s A Small World with her nephews over and over again because they were still too small or too scared for most rides. 

She likes it here. She likes being able to get good food of any kind whenever she wants. She likes spending free afternoons wandering around Central Park, and she even likes the hellish, unreliable MTA.

“No. Not for a job.”

“There’s no place like New York,” Peter agrees. 

“In other states, they call Duane Reade Walgreens,” Michelle says, slurping up another marshmallow. 

“What?!”

“In Iowa, there’s this grocery store called Hy-Vee.”

Peter narrows his eyes. “You’re kidding?”

“Doesn’t it sound like a type of virus?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, like he can’t quite believe it himself. “Like varicella.”

Michelle nods. “I had that.”

“Me too!” Peter beams, holding his palm up for a high-five. 

She snorts. “Don’t get so excited.”

“My best friend and I had it at the same time, so we got to stay home from school together. Ate lots of mac and cheese. I don’t really remember the bad stuff.”

“Maybe we could develop shingles together,” Michelle says. 

He actually smiles at her. “Could be fun.”

“Dork.” She rolls her eyes, but she has to press her lips together to keep from smiling. 

There’s something about Peter that’s nice. He’s easy to talk to, and she almost forgets they’re practically strangers until she spots Brad eyeing her from across the room. 

Shit. 

She was hoping she’d magically never see him. Grams’s house isn’t huge, but it’s packed with people -- friends, family, the entirety of Grams’s church. It wouldn’t be impossible to avoid Brad if she had been vigilant.

This is Peter’s fault. 

He distracted her with jokes about chickenpox and his soft, molten eyes and his perfect jawline. 

“I make a really good mac and cheese now,” he continues. “With toasted breadcrumbs and everything.”

Brad starts making his way through the crowd, lifting a hand at MJ because he saw her see him. 

“Peter,” she starts.

“Wait, are you one of those people who doesn’t like mac and cheese?”

“Peter,” she insists, eyes wide. 

“What?”

Before she has a chance to explain that Grams probably had too much of her own eggnog before inviting Brad to the party, he’s arrived. “Hey, MJ.”

“Hey. Peter, this is Brad. Brad, Peter is my,” she pauses, eyes cutting to him and his affable smile and easygoing eyes. “My boyfriend.”

There’s hesitation, and then: “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Nice to meet you,” Peter says, holding out his hand. 

Brad looks at MJ, eyebrows raised. “Boyfriend?”

“Yeah.” MJ swallows, forcing a smile. 

Dread swirls in her stomach. 

Peter drops his hand. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

Brad stares at MJ like she betrayed him. 

She straightens her back and steps closer to Peter, because she didn't do anything wrong, and she’s not going to feel bad about -- what? Nothing. He’s the one at her family’s holiday party.

“I’m her ex,” he admits, nodding once and rocking on his heels.

“Oh,” Peter says. He takes a large gulp of eggnog.

“How long have you two been together?” Brad asks. 

Peter nudges Michelle. It seems playful, probably, but she sees it for what it is. A question he can’t answer. 

“Two months,” MJ says. 

It’s a good number. Solid, but it gives her space to grieve the loss of her relationship with Brad and enough leeway in case Betty drinks too much Malbec with Michelle’s mom and tells Brad she thought Peter didn’t even really exist.

Brad won’t feel like she jumped right into Peter’s -- from what she can tell, defined and strong -- arms. 

“That’s--” Brad starts, voice thick with hurt.

“Seven months after we broke up,” she supplies.

MJ feels Peter relax next to her, subtly easing closer. “It’s been a great two months,” he says, looking at her with an encouraging smile. “We have fun.”

“We do,” she agrees, sipping her cocoa. 

Weirdly enough, it feels true.

“Except Peter thinks it’d be fun if we got shingles together.”

He laughs, all genuine. “There’s no better way to bond!”

“There are a million better ways to bond.”

“Name one.”

“Ordering takeout and watching a documentary.”

Peter hums, squints, and decides: “No. I think sharing a disease is better.”

“You’re such a nerd,” she says, discovering that the smile on her face is real.

Peter probably thinks she’s weird. Having a complete stranger pretend to be her boyfriend. Her ex at her family’s holiday party looking like she kicked his puppy, hair flopping over his forehead. 

But Peter’s grinning at her like ‘nerd’ is a common term of endearment. His eyes are so warm, and the dread in her stomach heats up, replaced by something that’s startlingly like the holiday spirit.

“MJ and I helped run a grassroots campaign in Iowa,” Brad says. 

It’s true.

“We lost.”

“Third isn’t losing.”

“It’s not winning,” Michelle counters. 

Brad huffs, annoyed. “I’m just saying, spending four months in another state trying to excite the electorate is a better bonding experience than contracting a hypothetical virus.”

“The virus isn’t hypothetical. And it’s a joke.”

“It’s okay, we won’t share our shingles with you,” Peter says. 

Brad rolls his eyes.

“The only person I want to give me shingles is MJ,” he continues.

“Oh my god.” She scrubs a hand down her face.

“Too much?” Peter asks. It feels genuine, like he’s beginning to realize his over-the-top holiday movie lines are lame.

“Yeah.” She presses her mouth together, unfortunately smiling, and shakes her head. He _is_ committing to the cheesy fantasy too much to be believable, but she really likes how he looks at her, bright and amused. “It’s okay.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

It’s … a little lower, his voice dropping in tone and volume. His gaze adds some heat, and Michelle bites at the corner of her mouth, arm brushing against his. Peter takes a sip of eggnog, eyeing her over the rim. 

Brad clears his throat. “This is ridiculous.”

MJ blinks before looking at him. “Yeah.”

“Are you trying to get back at me for something?” he asks. 

Michelle balks. “We broke up, and you still came to my grandmother’s holiday party like nothing happened.”

“She invited me.”

“She shouldn’t have.”

“I thought she did it because you wanted me here.”

“I didn’t,” MJ says. “I don’t.”

“Well, I thought--”

“You could have asked me.” She rolls her eyes. Peter doesn’t touch her, so she leans into him until his arm finds her waist. “I didn’t block your number; I would have told you not to come.”

“Whatever, MJ.” He shakes his head, moving through the opposite archway. 

Peter squeezes her side before letting go. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She slurps up more cocoa. “He’s always been like that.”

“Like what?” Peter frowns, tilting his head. He watches her carefully, eyes focused in a way that causes MJ to look down at her mug, the marshmallows melting. 

She swallows. “Trying to do what he thinks I want him to do without asking what I actually want him to do.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“Maybe.” Michelle twists her mouth, finally making eye contact with Peter again. “Maybe I should have told him what I wanted.”

Peter inhales. She can see the breath expand in his chest as he thinks it over. “Maybe.”

She scoffs, an amused sound. “I thought you were going to try and make me feel better.”

“Um, he’s an asshole?”

Michelle laughs. “Yeah, yeah.”

“You could go find him? Explain?” 

“I don’t want that,” she rushes. “I’ve moved on.”

Peter eyes her like he doesn’t quite believe it. 

Michelle understands. She did make up an entire fictional boyfriend he’s currently pretending to be.

“My family loved Brad. A lot.” She wraps her hands around her rapidly cooling mug and pivots to look at Peter more directly. “They all think he’s the best I can do.” She shakes her head. “No, I mean. He’s a good guy. My family loves me. But they’re overbearing. I’m happy, but family just has a way of making you second guess yourself sometimes, you know?”

“Yeah.” Peter hums. “Or maybe they’re just looking out for you.”

“In their own way,” MJ concedes. “Grams didn’t even tell me she invited Brad.”

Peter’s eyebrows furrow and he frowns. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“That sucks.”

“It’s okay.” MJ shrugs. “I showed up with a cute boyfriend, so hopefully that will keep her from further meddling in my life.”

“Cute boyfriend?” Peter asks, smile starting to pull at his mouth again.

It’s a relief, something tense in MJ’s stomach giving way like she was afraid of messing up the nothing that’s between them. It’s absurd, but she feels better with him standing next to her, looking at her with something akin to affection. 

It’s not real. She knows that. And her feeling of ease is probably to do with not having to pretend she has a boyfriend who cares about her but missed the holiday party. 

Still.

“I wouldn’t have agreed to this is if I thought you weren’t cute,” she says, aiming for something like _duh_. 

“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t think you were cute, too.”

MJ presses her lips together in order to contain her smile. “Okay, Romeo. Drink some more eggnog before my mom finds my dad and tells him to find you.”

They chat about Peter spending the holidays with Aunt May, the caroling tradition she and Uncle Ben started when they moved into the neighborhood. Peter talks about his uncle with a tinge of regret and sadness, and MJ wants to ask, but it’s a holiday party. They’re not close enough for it, anyway. 

She offers more about her time directly in politics. How it was just as much about finding a candidate to believe in as it was finding a job to pay the bills. 

It’s not gauche to discuss politics on a first date, but this isn’t really a date at all, and Peter doesn’t seem off-put by Michelle’s left leanings, or that left leanings is putting it mildly. He listens intently, nodding, eyes focused, asking questions where appropriate and not stupid ones. 

He smiles small, but it crinkles around his eyes when she asks for his voting record.

“Please don’t tell me you don’t vote,” she says.

“I vote. Even in local elections.”

“Good.” She sighs, relieved. “Wait, if you’re a Republican that’s even worse than not voting.”

Peter leans close, and Michelle finds she leans, too.

His voting record is very good. 

They finish their drinks, and MJ holds out her hand. Peter laces his fingers through hers, and they embark on a quest to find her father. 

He sits on the arm of the sofa in the backroom, watching an old, recorded football game on the television with Ned. They hear music drifting in from the living room. When they passed by, Betty was attempting to push people around to create the traditional dance floor. She and Liz don’t force Michelle into embarrassing routines anymore, but Betty insists there’s nothing more romantic than a slow dance to a sad Christmas song. 

Michelle disagrees.

“Hey, Dad,” she says.

“Michelle!” He grins, eyeing Peter before he pushes up to give her a hug. 

She knows he would have kept his perch if he wasn’t sure about being taller than Peter. 

“Who’s this young man?” he asks, pointing at Peter with his thumb.

“This is my boyfriend, Peter. Peter, this is my dad.”

Her father hums, holding out his hand. Peter shakes it, and her father hums again, more impressed. “Good to meet you, son.” It’s not a term of endearment. “Solid handshake.”

“Thanks. It’s good to meet you, too,” Peter says. 

Her dad twists, looking over his shoulder. “Ned, have you met Peter?”

“No.” Ned’s eyes stay on the football game. A missed pass. Then, he scrambles up. “Hey, Peter. I’m Ned.”

Another handshake.

“It’s good, right?” her dad asks.

“Yeah,” Ned agrees, pretending to shake out his hand and shooting a smile Peter’s way. 

“You coming to mass on Christmas?” her dad asks. 

No beating around the bush, then.

“Oh, uh,” Peter hesitates, glancing at Michelle. “I’m Jewish, actually.”

Her dad tuts. “Well, okay. Better than believing in nothing.”

Shit.

Her father will completely freak him out. And then he’s never going to want to see her again. 

And despite this entire mess, Michelle is starting to feel like she wants to see Peter again. He’s really cute, and his hand feels nice in hers (so maybe her dad’s not totally off-base with the handshake thing). He’s got decent politics even if he cannot articulate the intricacies like she can. He cares about people, all people, and that’s harder to come by than is comforting.

But if Peter thought she was completely nuts before, her dad’s overprotective, patriarchal bullshit isn’t going to convince him to stick around. 

“I did accidentally tell my first grade class that Santa doesn’t exist,” Peter admits. 

Her dad guffaws. 

“Really?” Ned asks, eyes wide. 

“Yeah. This kid was making fun of me because I said I don’t celebrate Christmas. He said that I must be a real loser if Santa didn’t even want to give me coal, so I told him that his parents were Santa.”

“Nice, dude!” 

Peter scrunches up his face. “I felt really bad. I still do.”

“If he was picking on you, it’s good that you stood up for yourself,” her dad says. 

“I shouldn’t have said anything. Our teacher had to email all the parents and tell them that I ruined Santa.”

MJ shrugs. “You told the truth.”

His eyebrows wrinkle, and his frown deepens. “Yeah, but it was--”

“Cut yourself some slack, Peter. You were in first grade. Somebody’s older sibling was going to ruin it for them, anyway.”

“In kindergarten, Gayle told MJ Santa didn’t exist,” Ned offers.

“I already knew.”

“You did not!”

“Whatever.” 

She did. 

Between her mother stressing that she shouldn’t expect the Barbie Jeep she asked Santa for in her letter and the loopy cursive of her mother’s grocery list on the fridge matching the tag on the vintage hot wheels, it wasn’t difficult to figure out. 

“MJ’s pretty smart,” her dad defends. “She probably knew. But she wanted to get Gayle in trouble, anyway.”

Also true.

“Maybe,” Ned concedes. “Oh! She hit me in the knee with a hockey puck. I still have the scar.”

“Really?” Peter asks, looking at her with amusement.

“Yeah, so don’t mess with me.”

“She didn’t mean to,” Ned says. “She’s got no hand-eye coordination.”

Peter chuckles, and MJ finds herself pulling closer to him, shaking her head to avoid smushing her face into his shoulder. 

Embarrassing. Weird. Stupid.

She should feel so stupid for how she’s constantly holding his hand, palm growing damp in his, but he just squeezes back, fingers laced through hers, and she can’t find it in herself to feel anything other than nice. Happy, almost.

There’s a version of her she can see very clearly, one that wants Peter to be her not-fake boyfriend. 

It’s not possible. She knows that. Reminds herself. She’s just allowing him to participate in some strange holiday fantasy, and he’ll leave her at the end of the night with a friendly smile. 

But it’s a good smile. 

Michelle likes having it directed at her.

“I’d never mess with you,” Peter says. “Well, expecting to win, anyway.”

Ned nods. “Smart.”

“He’s a quick study,” her dad adds.

“Your daughter have very discerning taste,” Peter says. 

“You’re just saying that because for now she’s discerned you.”

“Maybe a little.” Peter cracks a smile. He looks at MJ, eyes wide and sincere. “But I don’t know. She’s already told me my job is funded by an asshole.”

“I didn’t call Stark an asshole.”

“You work for SI?” her dad asks. “Maybe she doesn’t have the taste I thought she did.”

MJ huffs. “He works with the STEM program for kids who don’t have regular access to the information.”

Her dad squints. “I’ll allow it.” He focuses on Peter. “But you’re on thin ice.”

“Okay.” Peter’s smile is shaky.

Her father blinks, posture straightening impossibly. “Now, what are your--”

“Hey!” Betty interrupts, grabbing Ned’s arm. “It’s time to dance, babe.”

“Oh, no, babe,” Ned sighs. “We’re talking--”

“I’d love to dance,” Peter says.

Michelle smirks at him, knowing he’s starting to feel the pressure of her father’s stare. He’s probably building up to a question about pre-martial sex despite Michelle being in her mid-20s, about political territory Michelle’s already covered, and about not believing Jesus died for his sins. 

She knows it’ll be bad if they stick around. _She’ll_ feel bad. 

Peter’s not her real boyfriend. And her dad’s interrogations are always awful. If anyone in her family lost respect for Brad after MJ broke up with him, it was her father. Moving in together without being married? The scandal! 

But she likes the idea of teasing Peter about his discomfort. Her father is stern, seemingly stuck in some warped version of the 1950s, but he’s harmless underneath. Soft. Just wants MJ to be happy. 

“Oh, great!” Betty grins. She pulls on Ned’s wrist. “Follow me.”

Ned shrugs.

Peter tugs MJ after Betty a little too quickly.

Betty and Liz did a great job pushing furniture toward the walls. The speakers play a Bing Crosby classic, slow and steady. Peter rests his hands on MJ’s hips, a solid pressure, like how his hand felt in hers.

Michelle wraps her arms around his neck. 

Their swaying is a little awkward, and Peter chuckles as they attempt to find a shared rhythm.

“You’re scared of my dad, huh?” she asks.

“He’s kind of scary,” Peter says. 

“I guess. But I think you could take him.”

Peter stutters, and Michelle feels the light press of his toes over her shoes. She’s reminded of how he took his off by the door, not wanting to track any dirt or snow into Grams’s house. 

Polite. 

“He’s _your dad_.”

“Yeah, probably not a good idea to fight him.”

“Terrible idea. I got a very polishing-his-shotgun vibe.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Peter,” MJ says, pulling back and interlocking her fingers at the nape of his neck. She can feel how soft his hair is. “My dad believes in gun control.”

“That’s a relief.” He smiles at her, but this one is smaller than the others she’s tracked tonight, more hesitant. It makes her stomach flip. “This is nice”

“It is.”

She pulls him closer again, leaning her forehead against Peter’s as they sway. He slips a hand toward the small of her back, palm splayed over her light sweater. It feels like he wants to bundle her up in his arms, press until there’s no space between them. Michelle feels his body heat radiating through her; she feels like a flower tilting toward the sun. 

Maybe she’s projecting.

She brushes her cheek against his.

If he wanted his cheesy romantic comedy, MJ thinks she should get this dance the way she wants it. 

“Is this okay?” she asks. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. 

Michelle dips her head where his neck curves into his shoulder. He smells like eggnog and gingerbread and something woodsy. It’s nice, cozy and comforting. It feels natural, being with him like this. It shouldn’t, but Michelle allows her eyes to slip shut, surrendering for a few moments, allowing herself to believe it’s okay. 

That maybe someone with a (fake, she’s sure) list of holiday movie cliches he dreams of playing out might have discovered that he likes her, too.

Peter pulls Michelle closer, almost like he can read her mind. His body is muscular like she expected, but somehow more solid. He buries his face in her hair, and her heart beats quick, breath catching in her throat, stomach fluttering pleasantly. 

She wants to say something.

But she doesn’t know what. 

“I like this song,” she says. 

It’s not what she wants to say. 

“It’s sad,” Peter supplies.

“I think that’s why I like it.”

He hums as they drift in a small circle. “I like it, too.”

Unwrapping from each other when the music turns to a more upbeat affair, Peter checks his phone.

“They’re done caroling,” he says. 

“Do you need to go?” MJ asks. 

“Soon, before Mr. Stark thinks I’ve given in to your poor opinion of him.” Peter’s mouth lifts up, but sadness dwells in his eyes.

Michelle feels it, too. For different reasons, she presumes: the night ending, never seeing Peter again, and not because Bing Crosby cannot make it home for Christmas. 

“We should find Grams, at least,” she says.

“May would never forgive me if I forgot the peanut brittle message.”

Their hands find each other again, like magnets. MJ’s used to it now, Peter’s palm pressed against hers as she leads him through Grams’s home. She wonders if she’ll miss it the next time she’s here, or if the night has gone to her head.

Grams holds court at the dining room table. 

It’s like clockwork at her holiday party: a glass of wine and a glass of eggnog in the kitchen before settling in the dining room. Easy to find, easy to entertain a rotating hoard of guests wanting her stories about her time as an ER nurse, perfecting her lemon bar recipe, and church gossip. 

“A little bit of powdered sugar, you know, you have to-- MJ!” Grams beams, waving her over. “Oh, honey, if it weren’t for your mother, I would have thought you’d forgotten about me.”

The small crowd around the table parts for her like the Re(e)d Sea for Moses. She bends, allowing Grams to wrap her in a tight hug. Her hair a bluish grey, smelling like talcum powder and too much floral perfume. 

“Hey, Grams,” she says.

Grams’s eyes slide to Peter. “Well, that certainly isn’t Brad.”

“No, I’m not.” He holds out his hand. “Peter.”

She shakes his hand with her mouth pursed like she sucked on a lemon before making her famous bars. 

“Aunt May, um, May Parker who lives down the street? My aunt, um, she has peanut brittle for you that she can drop by later. Or you can pick up. Or, whatever is easier.” He offers a shaky smile. “If you want.”

Grams’s eyes narrow.

And then she grins at him. “Your May Parker’s nephew?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

 _Ma’am_. 

Michelle wants to tease Peter about it. She wants to call women at checkout counters ma’am while arching an eyebrow at him. She wants to see if she can convince him to call a waitress ma’am. She wants and wants and wants, and she plants a palm against the table. 

“I’ve heard so much about you! May is lovely, isn’t she? Gertie, please, give the boy a place to sit.” She waves at a woman Michelle knows is in her bible study. 

Poor Gertie gives up her seat to someone who definitely needs it less than her despite Peter protesting that he’s fine. 

“I pray for your uncle’s soul every day,” Grams says.

Peter swallows, nods.

Michelle understands now. The sadness she sensed earlier. She wants to reach out, rub Peter’s shoulder blade or card her fingers through his hair. 

She doesn't.

“I’m sure he’s in heaven,” Grams continues. “But just in case he’s stuck in purgatory.”

“Oh, we don’t really--”

“I know, I know.” She smiles. “Gehinnom.”

Peter nods, glancing at Michelle, uncertain. But she doesn’t have a better idea what Grams means, cutting him off and speaking over him. 

“Well, um, thank you.”

“Of course! Your uncle was a wonderful man. He helped me hang up my lights after my husband passed.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter says, quiet.

“Me too. But that’s how life goes.” Grams smiles, sad. “Enough with that talk. Does this mean you’ll be bringing my little MJ around more often?”

“I hope so.” Peter catches MJ’s eye. MJ bites her lip. “She doesn’t visit?”

“I see her six times a year, if I’m lucky. She’s always saying she’s busy with this or that. You know, too busy for her dear Grams.”

Michelle sighs. “You’re too busy for me.”

“You could come to tea with my friends. You just don’t want to.” She leans toward Peter, voice hushed: “She doesn’t do things she doesn’t want to do. Keep that in mind.”

Peter chuckles. “I will.”

Grams looks back at Michelle. “May says Peter visits her twice a month.”

“At least,” Peter adds, smug smirk on his mouth as his eyes flit to her.

“So, you’ll bring her with?” Grams asks, nodding toward Michelle.

“I’ll try my best. But a wise woman once told me she doesn’t do things she doesn’t want to do.”

Grams laughs, a loud, undignified sound that makes Michelle smile.

Her grandmother might be the most alive person MJ’s ever known. It’s something she sees in her mother, too. She always thought it was one of the reasons her dad fell in love with her mom. That weird link that freaks her out if she considers it too much. 

“I’ll try, Grams,” Michelle says. 

“I’ve heard that before.” Her eyes drift to Peter. “But I believe it a little bit more this time.”

MJ thinks about it. Spending more time with Aunt May -- any time, really. She had seemed so kind at the door, emanating a warmth that Michelle thinks must be rare. She figures Peter has it, too. Must have gotten it from somewhere.

It could be another thing she’s dreaming up tonight. A brief consideration that somebody spiked the hot chocolate with something.

But, no. She knows that’s not true.

Peter looks at her, and she feels it curling in her toes. If she’s consumed anything akin to alcohol tonight, it’s his bright eyes and sincere smile, the warmth he probably learned from his aunt, his lightsome laugh. 

She worries that it’s a show. Fake like his current status in her life. But she feels, somewhere in her gut, that it’s not, that honesty is Peter’s default. She wants that to be true, and when he looks at her a little bit too long, she lets herself believe it might be. 

“Thank you for having me over,” Peter tells Grams. “I appreciate it. I know MJ and I haven’t known each other that long, but--”

“It’s my pleasure,” Grams insists, taking his hand. 

She laments that May couldn’t make it tonight, agrees to give her a call about the peanut brittle, and when Grams starts to get too chatty about May not telling her Peter was planning to attend the party, MJ excuses them with a story about breakfast plans tomorrow morning.

She grabs Peter’s hand. 

It takes around two months to form a habit, but this already feels like one. 

“Your grams is very nice,” Peter whispers.

“Until you upset her,” Michelle says back.

They pause under the archway as a few people shuffle into the dining room.

It’s a mistake.

“MJ! Peter! You’re under the mistletoe!” Grams calls. 

“Oh,” Peter exhales. His eyes are wide, uncertainty swimming clearly, glancing between the plant hanging above them and Michelle. 

“You don’t have to,” she starts.

“Kiss!” a church lady calls. 

“Just a little peck!” Gayle adds from the far end of the table. 

Annoying.

Michelle frowns. “I’m sorry. This is not--”

“Is it okay if I...?” he asks, glancing at her mouth. 

“Um, yeah, sure.”

“Are you sure?” he double checks.

“Yes.”

She is.

Michelle’s heart does this awful, nice somersault thing. She feels her face heat up, and Peter squeezes her hand.

They awkwardly lean left and right like they’re attempting to pass each other.

Their lips land crooked, corners of their mouths touching. It’s a soft press, quick, just a hint of linger. 

The crowd claps, and Michelle hears her sister whooping. 

She squeezes Peter’s hand back, apologetic smile on her face. He returns it, a serene curve that makes her veer too much toward lightheaded, a champagne feeling bubbling underneath her skin. 

A regular rom-com heroine. Except the only thing she thinks she learned is that she likes Peter. 

Maybe that’s all she had to learn. 

They shoulder through the crowd. 

Michelle hands him his coat, pulling hers on while he reties his shoes. 

Closing the door behind them, her eyes cut to him. “I’m going to call a car.”

“Okay.” He shoves his hands into his pockets.

“You don’t have to wait. You can go back to your aunt’s house.”

“I’ll wait.”

She swallows around the hope climbing up her throat.

The car is eight minutes away.

“It’s eight minutes away,” she tells him.

“That’s not too bad.”

“It’s not,” MJ agrees.

She rocks on her heels, tightening her scarf around her neck. “Thank you for--”

“I had a good--” he starts; stops. “Sorry.”

“No, um.” She tries to smile. It probably doesn’t look right. “Thank you for tonight. My family really liked you.”

“I had a good time.”

Michelle nods. 

When she exhales, her breath clouds. “I really liked you, too,” she admits.

“Past tense?”

“No.” MJ blinks against the freezing air. “I really like you.”

“I like you, too.” He nudges her. 

“Cool.”

She feels stupid but giddy. She doesn’t know if she’s ever felt so stupidly giddy before in her life. Maybe when they surprisingly took back the Senate. But it wasn’t like this. Tumbling inside her body, forcing her to bite down a grin and stick her feet to the porch so it doesn’t overtake her. 

“Do you want--”

“Yes,” she says.

Peter laughs. His eyes crinkle with it. “I can give you my number, if you want.”

“Yes,” she repeats, already unlocking her phone and handing it over.

She watches as Peter pulls his gloves off. He has good hands. She knew that, but it feels new knowing it now, his number punched into her cell. 

When he hands her phone back, she texts him ( _It’s MJ. Call me_.), and his grin takes over his entire face. It’s the kind of grin that could improve somebody’s day. 

“The story about the avocado?” she asks.

“Oh, yeah. That’s true. It was pineapple, though.”

“You don’t like pineapple?”

“It eats you!”

Michelle rolls her eyes. “The enzymes in your stomach stop that from happening. And it makes your bodily fluids taste better.”

Peter’s face goes all red and splotchy. It’s cute. 

“So keep that in mind,” she adds.

“I, uh, will, but I think a lot of fruits do that.”

“You’re right,” Michelle agrees. She can feel the smile fluttering around her mouth. “I was kind of kidding.”

Peter nods, face still flushed. “Good.”

“Only kind of,” she insists.

“That’s the good part.”

She chuckles, shaking her head.

There’s a constant wind blowing sharp against her cheeks, but she likes standing here with Peter. All the houses across the street have their lights on: wrapped around porch poles, lining roofs, spread over bushes. White or multicolored or alternating red and green. 

“Which house is your aunt’s?” Michelle asks.

“She lives the next street over.” Peter points behind them.

“Oh.” 

“Maybe I can show you some time?” he asks, an airiness to it.

It’s more serious than they’re ready for. But turnabout is fair play, and Michelle has let tonight surprise her. “Yeah, maybe some time.”

She glances at her phone. 

“The car’s a minute away.”

Peter gestures down the driveway. “After you.”

She scrunches up her nose, reaching out and grabbing his hand. There’s surprise on his face, but it’s a good one, MJ can tell. 

It’s quiet as they wait for her Uber, but it’s comfortable, too. 

Michelle inhales. The air doesn’t smell as crisp and clean as it would further from the city, but it’s better than where she lives. A sense of suburbia coating everything. 

She glances at Peter, noting that maybe his flush isn’t because of her, but due to the gentle wind. 

Wishful thinking.

But when the car pulls up, stopping by the curb, he turns toward her. “It was nice to meet you, MJ.”

“You, too.”

Peter tugs on her hand. “Can I kiss you goodnight?”

“Yes.”

It’s a mutual coming together, their mouths slotting against each other fully. His other hand cups her cheek, cotton of his glove scratchy against her dry skin. 

Michelle doesn’t mind. 

It swells in her chest, warms her up, and her lips smile against his of their own accord.

“Goodnight,” he whispers against her smile.

She climbs into the car, and he waves goodbye. Michelle twists to look out the back window and sees Peter standing at the edge of the driveway until the car turns the corner. 

She leans her forehead against the cool glass, the driver not bothering to make polite conversation beyond asking how her night was, turning up the radio -- not a holiday station -- as he drives.

Her phone buzzes with a text from Peter: __

_1\. Smart ✅  
2\. Funny ✅  
3\. Gets under Tony’s skin ✅  
4\. Puts too many marshmallows on her cocoa ✅  
5\. Santa’s daughter 🚫_

Michelle grins: _January 3rd?_

_It’s a date._


End file.
